z

Young Writers Society



metropolis

by Fireweed


 
in love with the chilly night and neon lights and stars
that sting the smoggy atmosphere like tears,
with the thrum of cars and the bustle of bars and the
vagabonds strumming their broken guitars,
she wonders if
steel has a soul or
pavement a pulse,
if the city is singing a lovesong.


Note: You are not logged in, but you can still leave a comment or review. Before it shows up, a moderator will need to approve your comment (this is only a safeguard against spambots). Leave your email if you would like to be notified when your message is approved.







Is this a review?


  

Comments



Random avatar

Points: 1356
Reviews: 4

Donate
Fri Nov 13, 2009 5:22 pm
red_helix7 wrote a review...



I really enjoyed this poem. But i must agree with the two earlier posts. May be because the first 4 lines are so thick and the final 4 are so small and those are actually the best ones. There was a rhyme scheme in the first four.

Line 1: stars
Line 2: tears
Line 3 & 4: i think here is where a reader would get thrown off, i believe you should take off "and the" and leave it guitars and had started Line 4 with "While" and adjust strumming to just strum.
Line 6-8: and simply break off into another stanza or something.




User avatar
29 Reviews


Points: 5541
Reviews: 29

Donate
Thu Nov 12, 2009 3:13 am
xLogan wrote a review...



The last sentence is a bit off, may just be me. Congrats to June, 900th review! The first few lines were off for me also.

It's good though, really cute and cool too.

Logan. :)




User avatar
1464 Reviews


Points: 15394
Reviews: 1464

Donate
Thu Nov 12, 2009 1:30 am
Juniper wrote a review...



Hey Fireweed, June here!

This was cute! Excellent flow and uppity style to this; I really enjoyed it. At first, the rhyme struck me as off (probably because I was reading it slowly), but as I read to the end, I was able to appreciate this. I don't have much to say on criticism points, dear, but I really did enjoy this. :)

Keep writing!

- June





In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
— JRR Tolkien